University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Purchased  from  the 

Margaret  I.  and 
Augusta  M.  Higginson  Fund 


OAK  AND  IVY 


BY 


PAUL  DUNBAR 


DAYTON    OHIO 

PRESS  OF  UNITED  BRETHREN   PUBLISHING   HOUSE 
1893 


TO    HER 

WHO    HAS    EVER   BEEN 
MY   GUIDE,    TEACHER,    AND    INSPIRATION, 


THIS  LITTLE  VOLUME  IS 

atelg  htaerifoir. 


OAK  AND  IVY. 


io 


0  Mother  Race!    to  thee  I  bring 
This  pledge  of  faith  unwavering, 

This  tribute  to  thy  glory. 

1  know  the  pangs  which  thou  didst  feel, 
When  Slavery  crushed  thee  with  its  heel, 

With  thy  dear  blood  all  gory. 

Sad  days  were  those,—  ah,  sad  indeed  ! 
But  through  the  land  the  fruitful  seed 

Of  better  times  was  growing. 
The  plant  of  freedom  upward  sprung, 
And  spread  its  leaves  so  fresh  and  young,- 

Its  blossoms  now  are  blowing. 

On  every  hand  in  this  fair  land 
Proud  Ethiope's  swarthy  children  stand 

Beside  their  fairer  neighbor; 
The  forests  flee  before  their  stroke, 
Their  hammers  ring,  their  forges  smoke,  — 

They  stir  in  honest  labor. 
5 


OAK  AND  IVY. 

They  tread  the  fields  where  honor  calls; 
Their  voices  sound  through  senate  halls 

In  majesty  and  power. 
To  right  they  cling;  the  hymns  they  sing 
Up  to  the  skies  in  beauty  ring, 

And  bolder  grow  each  hour. 


Be  proud,  my  Eace,  in  mind  and  soul; 
Thy  name  is  writ  on  Glory's  scroll 

In  characters  of  fire. 

High  'mid  the  clouds  of  Fame's  bright  sky 
Thy  banner's  blazoned  folds  now  fly, 

And  truth  shall  lift  them  higher. 


Thou  hast  the  right  to  noble  pride, 
Whose  spotless  robes  were  purified 

By  blood's  severe  baptism. 
Upon  thy  brow  the  cross  was  laid, 
And  labor's  painful  sweat-beads  made 

A  consecrating  chrism. 


No  other  race,  or  white  or  black, 
When  bound,  as  thou  wert,  to  the  rack, 

So  seldom  stooped  to  grieving; 
No  other  race,  when  free  again, 
Forgot  the  past  and  proved  them  men 

So  noble  in  forgiving. 

Go  on  and  up!    Our  souls  and  eyes 
Shall  follow  thy  continuous  rise; 

Our  ears  shall  list  thy  story 
From  bards  which  from  thy  root  shall  spring, 
And  proudly  tune  their  lyres  to  sing 

Of  Ethiopia's  glory. 


OAK  AND  IVY. 

A 


The  air  is  dark,  the  sky  is  gray, 
The  misty  shadows  come  and  go, 

And  here  within  ray  dusky  room 

Each  chair  looks  ghostly  in  the  gloom. 
Outside  the  rain  falls  cold  and  slow,  — 

Half-stinging  drops,  half-blinding  spray. 

Each  slightest  sound  is  magnified, 
For  drowsy  quiet  holds  her  reign; 

The  burnt  stick  on  the  fireplace  breaks, 

The  nodding  cat  with  start  awakes, 
And  then  to  sleep  drops  off  again, 

Unheeding  Towser  at  her  side. 

I  look  far  out  across  "the  lawn, 
Where  huddled  stand  the  silly,  sheep; 

My  work  lies  idle  at  my  hands, 

My  thoughts  fly  out  like  scattered  strands 
Of  thread,  and  on  the  verge  of  sleep  — 

Still  half  awake  —  I  dream  and  yawn. 

What  spirits  rise  before  my  eyes! 

How  various  of  kind  and  form! 
Sweet  memories  of  days  long  past, 
The  dreams  of  youth  that  could  not  last, 

Each  smiling  calm,  each  raging  storm, 
That  swept  across  my  early  skies. 

Half  seen,  the  bare,  gaunt-fingered  boughs 
Before  my  window  sweep  and  sway, 

And  chafe  in  tortures  of  unrest. 

My  chin  sinks  down  upon  my  breast; 
I  cannot  work  on  such  a  day, 

But  only  sit  and  dream  and  drowse. 


OAK  AND  IVY. 

a  iplngght*  Anmtj* 


I've  a  humble  little  motto 

That  is  homely,  though  it's  true,  — 

Keep  a  pluggin'  away. 
It's  a  thing  when  I've  an  object 
That  I  always  try  to  do,  — 

Keep  a  pluggin'  away. 
When  you've  rising  storms  to  quell, 
When  opposing  waters  swell, 
It  will  never  fail  to  tell,  — 

Keep  a  pluggin'  away. 

If  the  hills  are  high  before 

And  the  paths  are  hard  to  climb, 

Keep  a  pluggin'  away. 
And  remember  that  success 
Comes  to  him  who  bides  his  time,  — 

Keep  a  pluggin'  away. 
From  the  greatest  to  the  least, 
None  are  from  the  rule  released. 
Be  thou  toiler,  poet,  priest, 

Keep  a  pluggin'  away. 

Delve  away  beneath  the  surface, 
There  is  treasure  farther  down,  — 

Keep  a  pluggin'  away. 
Let  the  rain  come  down  in  torrents, 
Let  the  threat'ning  heavens  frown, 

Keep  a  pluggin'  away. 
When  the  clouds  have  rolled  away, 
There  will  come  a  brighter  day 
All  your  labor  to  repay,  — 

Keep  a  pluggin'  away. 


OAK  AND  IVY. 

There'll  be  lots  of  sneers  to  swallow, 
There'll  be  lots  of  pain  to  bear,— 

Keep  a  pluggin'  away. 
If  you've  got  your  eye  on  heaven, 
Some  bright  day  you'll  wake  up  there, — 

Keep  a  pluggin'  away. 
Perseverance  still  is  king; 
Time  its  sure  reward  will  bring; 
Work  and  wait  unwearying,— 

Keep  a  pluggin'  away. 


A  little  bird,  with  plumage  brown, 
Beside  my  window  flutters  down, 
A  moment  chirps  its  little  strain, 
Then  taps  upon  my  window  pane, 
And  chirps  again,  and  hops  along, 
To  call  my  notice  to  its  song; 
But  I  work  on,  nor  heed  its  lay, 
Till,  in  neglect,  it  flies  away. 


So  birds  of  peace  and  hope  and  love 
Come  fluttering  earthward  from  above, 
To  settle  on  life's  window  sills, 
And  ease  our  load  of  earthly  ills; 
But  we,  in  traffic's  rush  and  din 
Too  deep  engaged  to  let  them  in, 
With  deadened  heart  and  sense  plod  on, 
Nor  know  our  loss  till  they  are  gone. 


10  OAK  AND  IVY. 


To  the  cold,  dark  grave  they  go 
Silently  and  sad  and  slow, 
From  the  light  of  happy  skies 
And  the  glance  of  mortal  eyes. 
In  their  beds  the  violets  spring, 
And  the  brook  flows  murmuring; 
But  at  eve  the  violets  die, 
And  the  brook  in  the  sand  runs  dry. 

In  the  rosy,  blushing  morn, 
See,  the  smiling  babe  is  born  ; 
For  a  day  it  lives,  and  then 
Breathes  its  short  life  out  again. 
And  anon  gaunt-  visaged  Death, 
With  his  keen  and  icy  breath, 
Bloweth  out  the  vital  fire 
In  the  hoary-headed  sire. 

Heeding  not  the  children's  wail, 
Fathers  droop  and  mothers  fail; 
Sinking  sadly  from  each  other, 
Sister  parts  from  loving  brother. 
All  the  land  is  filled  with  wailing,  — 
Sounds  of  mourning  garments  trailing, 
With  their  sad  portent  imbued, 
Making  melody  subdued. 

But  in  all  this  depth  of  woe 
This  consoling  truth  we  know  : 
There  will  come  a  time  of  rain, 
And  the  brook  will  flow  again  ; 
Where  the  violet  fell,  'twill  grow, 
When  the  sun  has  chased  the  snow. 
See  in  this  the  lesson  plain, 
Mortal  man  shall  rise  again. 


OAK  AND  IVY.  11 

Well  the  prophecy  was  kept; 
Christ— "first  fruit  of  them  that  slept  "- 
Rose  with  vic'try-circled  brow ; 
So,  believing  one,  shalt  thou. 
Ah!    but  there  shall  come  a  day 
When,  unhampered  by  this  clay, 
Souls  shall  rise  to  life  newborn 
On  that  resurrection  morn. 

©ctober. 

October  is  the  treasurer  of  the  year, 

And  all  the  months  pay  bounty  to  her  store; 
The  fields  and  orchards  still  their  tribute  bear, 

And  fill  her  brimming  coffers  more  and  more. 
But  she,  with  youthful  lavishness, 
Spends  all  her  wealth  in  gaudy  dress, 

And  decks  herself  in  garments  bold 

Of  scarlet,  purple,  red,  and  gold. 

She  heedeth  not  how  swift  the  hours  fly, 

But  smiles  and  sings  her  happy  life  along; 
She  only  sees  above  a  shining  sky; 

She  only  hears  the  breezes'  voice  in  song. 
Her  garments  trail  the  woodlands  through, 
And  gather  pearls  of  early  dew 

That  sparkle,  till  the  roguish  Sun 

Creeps  up  and  steals  them  every  one. 

But  what  cares  she  that  jewels  should  be  lost, 

When  all  of  Nature's  bounteous  wealth  is  hers? 
Though  princely  fortunes  may  have  been  their  cost, 

Not  one  regret  her  calm  demeanor  stirs. 
Whole-hearted,  happy,  careless,  free, 
She  lives  her  life  out  joyously, 

Nor  cares  when  Frost  stalks  o'er  her  way 

And  turns  her  auburn  locks  to  gray. 


12  OAK  AND  IVY. 


It's  all  a  farce,  —  these  tales  they  tell 

About  the  breezes  sighing, 
And  moans  astir  o'er  field  and  dell, 

Because  the  year  is  dying. 

Such  principles  are  most  absurd,  — 
I  care  not  who  first  taught  'em; 

There's  nothing  known  to  beast  or  bird 
To  make  a  solemn  autumn. 

In  solemn  times,  when  grief  holds  sway 

With  countenance  distressing, 
You'll  note  the  more  of  black  and  gray 

Will  then  be  used  in  dressing. 

Now  purple  tints  are  all  around; 

The  sky  is  blue  and  mellow; 
And  e'en  the  grasses  turn  the  ground 

From  modest  green  to  yellow. 

The  seed  burs  all  with  laughter  crack 

On  featherweed  and  jimson; 
And  leaves  that  should  be  dressed  in  black 

Are  all  decked  out  in  crimson. 

A  butterfly  goes  winging  by  ; 

A  singing  bird  comes  after; 
And  Nature,  all  from  earth  to  sky, 

Is  bubbling  o'er  with  laughter. 

The  ripples  wimple  on  the  rills, 

Like  sparkling  little  lasses; 
The  sunlight  runs  along  the  hills, 

And  laughs  among  the  grasses. 


OAK  AND  IVY.  13 


The  earth  is  just  so  full  of  fun 

It  really  can't  contain  it; 
And  streams  of  mirth  so  freely  run 

The  heavens  seem  to  rain  it. 

Don't  talk  to  me  of  solemn  days 
In  autumn's  time  of  splendor, 

Because  the  sun  shows  fewer  rays, 
And  these  grow  slant  and  slender. 

Why,  it's  the  climax  of  the  year,— 
The  highest  time  of  living !  — 

Till  naturally  its  bursting  cheer 
Just  melts  into  thanksgiving. 


Dr.  Scones  Weroton  jMattljeiDS,  .Mason, 


All  round  about,  the  clouds  encompassed  me; 

On  every  side  I  looked,  my  weary  sight 

Was  met  by  terrors  of  Plutonian  night; 
And  chilling  surges  of  a  cruel  sea 
That  beat  against  my  stronghold  ceaselessly, 

Eoared  rude  derision  at  my  hapless  plight; 

And  hope,  which  I  had  thought  to  hold  so  tight, 
Slipped  from  my  weak'ning  grasp  and  floated  free. 


But  when  I  thought  to  flee  the  unequal  strife, 
As  wearied  out  I  could  not  bear  it  more, 
Fate  gave  the  choicest  gem  of  all  her  store, — 

And  noble  Matthews  came  into  my  life. 
He  warmed  my  being  like  a  virile  flame, 
And  with  his  coming,  light  and  courage  came! 


14  OAK  AND  IVY. 

A  Summer 


It's  hot  to-day.    The  bees  is  buzzin' 

Kinder  don't-keer-like  aroun', 
An'  fur  off  the  warm  air  dances 

O'er  the  parchin'  roofs  in  town. 
In  the  brook  the  cows  is  standin'; 

Childern  hidin'  in  the  hay; 
Can't  keep  none  of  'em  a  workin', 

'Cause  it's  hot  to-day. 

It's  hot  to-day.    The  sun  is  blazin' 

Like  a  great  big  ball  o'  fire; 
Seems  as  ef  instead  o'  settin' 

It  keeps  mountin'  higher  an'  higher. 
I'm  as  triflin'  as  the  childern, 

Though  I  blame  them  lots  an'  scold; 
I  keep  slippin'  to  the  spring  house, 

Where  the  milk  is  rich  an'  cold. 

The  very  air  within  its  shadder 

Smells  o'  cool  an'  restful  things, 
An'  a  roguish  little  robin 

Sits  above  the  place  an'  sings. 
I  don't  mean  to  be  a  shirkin', 

But  I  linger  by  the  way 
Longer,  mebbe,  than  is  needful, 

'Cause  it's  hot  to-day. 

It's  hot  to-day.    The  horses  stumble 

Half  asleep  across  the  fiel's; 
An'  a  host  o'  teasin'  fancies 

O'er  my  burnin'  senses  steals,  — 
Dreams  o'  cool  rooms,  curtains  lowered, 

An'  a  sofy's  temptin*  look; 
Patter  o'  composin'  raindrops 

Or  the  ripple  of  a  brook. 


OAK  AND  IVY.  15 

I  strike  a  stump!    That  wakes  me  sudden; 

Dreams  all  vanish  into  air. 
Lordy!  how  I  chew  my  whiskers; 

'Twouldn't  do  fur  me  to  swear. 
But  I  have  to  be  so  keerful 

'Bout  my  thoughts  an'  what  I  say; 
Somethin'  might  slip  out  unheeded, 

'Cause  it's  hot  to-day. 

Git  up,  there,  Suke!  you,  Sal,  git  over! 

Sakes  alive!  how  I  do  sweat. 
Every  stitch  that  I've  got  on  me, 

Bet  a  cent,  is  wringin'  wet. 
If  this  keeps  up,  I'll  lose  my  temper. 

Gee  there,  Sal,  you  lazy  brute! 
Wonder  who  on  airth  this  weather 

Could  'a'  be'n  got  up  to  suit? 

You,  Sam,  go  bring  a  tin  o'  water; 

Dash  it  all,  don't  be  so  slow! 
'Pears  as  ef  you  tuk  an  hour 

'Tween  each  step  to  stop  an'  blow. 
Think  I  want  to  stand  a  meltin' 

Out  here  in  this  b'ilin'  sun, 
While  you  stop  to  think  about  it? 

Lift  them  feet  o'  your'n  an'  run. 

It  ain't  no  use;  I'm  plumb  fetaggled. 

Come  an'  put  this  team  away. 
I  won't  plow  another  furrer; 

It's  too  mortal  hot  to-day. 
I  ain't  weak,  nor  I  ain't  lazy, 

But  I'll  stand  this  half  day's  loss 
'Fore  I  let  the  devil  make  me 

Lose  my  patience  an'  git  cross. 


16  OAK  AND  IVY. 

Songs. 

A  bee  that  was  searching  for  sweets  one  day 
Through  the  gate  of  a  rose  garden  happened  to  stray. 
In  the  heart  of  a  rose  he  hid  away, 
And  forgot  in  his  bliss  the  light  of  day, 
As  sipping  his  honey  he  buzzed  in  song; 
Though  day  was  waning,  he  lingered  long, 
For  the  rose  was  sweet,  so  sweet. 

A  robin  sits  pluming  his  ruddy  breast, 
And  a  madrigal  sings  to  his  love  in  her  nest: 
"Oh,  the  skies  they  are  blue,  the  fields  are  green, 
And  the  birds  in  your  nest  will  soon  be  seen!" 
She  hangs  on  his  words  with  a  thrill  of  love, 
And  chirps  to  him  as  he  sits  above, 
For  the  song  is  sweet,  so  sweet. 

A  maiden  was  out  on  a  summer's  day 
With  the  winds  and  the  waves  and  the  flowers  at  play ; 
And  she  met  with  a  youth  of  gentle  air, 
With  the  light  of  the  sunshine  on  his  hair. 
Together  they  wandered  the  flowers  among; 
They  loved,  and  loving  they  lingered  long, 
For  to  love  is  sweet,  so  sweet. 


Bird  of  my  lady's  bow'r, 

Sing  her  a  song; 
Tell  her  that  ev'ry  hour, 

All  the  day  long, 
Thoughts  of  her  come  to  me, 

Filling  my  brain 
With  the  warm  ecstasy 

Of  love's  refrain. 


OAK  AND  IVY.  17 

Little  bird!    happy  bird! 

Being  so  near, 
Where  e'en  her  slightest  word 

Thou  mayest  hear, 
Seeing  her  glancing  eyes, 

Sheen  of  her  hair, 
Thou  art  in  paradise, — 

Would  I  were  there. 

I  am  so  far  away, 

Thou  art  so  near; 
Plead  with  her,  birdling  gay, 

Plead  with  my  dear. 
Rich  be  thy  recompense, 

Fine  be  thy  fee, 
If  through  thine  eloquence 

She  hearken  me.- 


Sunset 

The  river  sleeps  beneath  the  sky, 

And  clasps  the  shadows  to  its  breast; 
The  crescent  moon  shines  dim  on  high; 
And  in  the  lately  radiant  west 
The  gold  is  fading  into  gray. 
Now  stills  the  lark  his  festive  lay 
And  mourns  with  me  the  dying  day, — 

While  in  the  south  the  first  faint  star 

Lifts  to  the  night  its  silver  face, 
And  twinkles  to  the  moon  afar 
Across  the  heaven's  graying  space ; 

Low  murmurs  reach  me  from  the  town, 
As  Day  puts  on  her  somber  crown, 
And  shakes  her  mantle  darkly  down, 


18  OAK  AND  IVY. 

Stt  Summer 

When  summer  time  has  come,  and  all 

The  world  is  in  the  magic  thrall 

Of  perfumed  airs  that  lull  each  sense 

To  fits  of  drowsy  indolence; 

When  skies  are  deepest  blue  above, 

And  flow'rs  aflush, —  then  most  I  love 

To  start,  while  early  dews  are  damp, 

And  wend  my  way  in  woodland  tramp 

Where  forests  rustle,  tree  on  tree, 

And  sing  their  silent  songs  to  me; 

Where  pathways  meet  and  pathways  part, — 

To  walk  with  Nature  heart  by  heart, 

Till  wearied  out  at  last  I  lie 

Where  some  sweet  stream  steals  singing  by 

A  mossy  bank ;  where  violets  vie 

In  color  with  the  summer  sky,— 

Or  take  my  rod  and  line  and  hook, 

And  wander  to  some  darkling  brook. 

Where  all  day  long  the  willows  dream, 

And  idly  droop  to  kiss  the  stream, 

And  there  to  loll  from  morn  till  night — 

Unheeding  nibble,  run,  or  bite — 

Just  for  the  joy  of  being  there 

And  drinking  in  the  summer  air, 

The  summer  sounds,  and  summer  sights, 

That  set  a  restless  mind  to  rights 

When  grief  and  pain  and  raging  doubt 

Of  men  and  creeds  have  worn  it  out; 

The  birds'  song  and  the  water's  drone, 

The  humming  bees'  low  monotone, 

The  murmur  of  the  passing  breeze, 

And  all  the  sounds  akin  to  these, 

That  make  a  man  in  summer  time 

Feel  only  fit  for  rest  and  rhyme. 


OAK  AND  IVY.  19 

Joy  springs  all  radiant  in  my  breast; 
Though  pauper  poor,  than  king  more  blest, 
The  tide  beats  in  my  soul  so  strong 
That  happiness  breaks  forth  in  song, 
And  rings  aloud  the  welkin  blue 
With  all  the  songs  I  ever  knew. 
0  time  of  rapture!    time  of  song! 
How  swiftly  glide  thy  days  along 
Adown  the  current  of  the  years, 
Above  the  rocks  of  grief  and  tears! 
'Tis  wealth  enough  of  joy  for  me 
In  summer  time  to  simply  be. 


When  storms  arise 
And  darkening  skies 
About  me  threat'ning  lower, 
To  thee,  0  Lord,  I  lift  mine  eyes; 
To  thee  my  tortured  spirit  flies 
For  solace  in  that  hour. 

Thy  mighty  arm 
Will  let  no  harm 
Come  near  me  nor  befall  me. 
Thy  voice  shall  quiet  my  alarm; 
When  life's  great  battle  waxeth  warm, 
No  foeman  shall  appall  me. 

Upon  thy  breast 
Secure  I  rest 

From  sorrow  and  vexation, 
No  more  by  sinful  cares  oppressed, 
But  in  thy  presence  ever  blest, 
O  God  of  my  salvation! 


20  OAK  AND  IVY. 

A  jBcmfo  Song* 

Oh,  dere's  lots  o'  care  an'  trouble 

In  dis  world  to  swaller  down; 
An'  ol'  Sorrer's  purty  lively 

In  her  way  o'  gittin'  roun'. 
Yet  dere's  times  when  I  furgit  'em,— 

Aches  an'  pains  an'  troubles  all, — 
An'  it's  when  I  take  at  ebenin' 

My  oP  banjo  f  um  de  wall. 

'Bout  de  time  dat  night  is  fallin' 

An'  my  daily  wu'k  is  done, 
An'  above  de  shady  hilltops 

I  kin  see  de  settin'  sun; 
When  de  quiet,  restful  shadders 

Is  beginnin'  jes'  to  fall,— 
Den  I  take  de  little  banjo 

F'um  its  place  upon  de  wall. 

Den  my  fam'ly  gadders  roun'  me 

In  de  fadin'  o'  de  light, 
As  I  strike  de  strings  to  try  'em 

Ef  dey  all  is  tuned  er-right. 
An'  it  seems  we're  so  nigh  heaben 

We  kin  hyeah  de  angels  sing 
When  de  music  o'  dat  banjo 

Sets  my  cabin  all  er-ring. 

An'  my  wife  an'  all  de  chillen,— 

Male  an'  female,  small  an'  big,— 
Even  up  to  gray-haired  granny, 

Seem  jes'  boun'  to  do  a  jig; 
Till  I  change  de  style  o'  music, 

Change  de  movement  an'  de  time. 
An'  de  ringin'  little  banjo 

Plays  an  ol'  heart-feelin'  hime. 


OAK  AND  IVY.  21 


An'  somehow  my  th'oat  gits  choky, 

An'  a  lump  keeps  try  in'  to  rise, 
Like  it  wan'ed  to  ketch  de  water 

Dat  was  flowin'  to  my  eyes; 
An'  I  feel  dat  I  could  sorter 

Knock  de  socks  clean  off  o'  sin 
As  I  hyeah  my  po'  ol'  granny 

Wid  her  trernblin'  voice  jine  in. 

Den  we  all  th'ow  in  our  voices 

Fur  to  he'p  de  chune  out  too, 
Like  a  big  camp-meetin'  choiry 

Tryin'  to  sing  a  mou'nah  th'oo. 
An'  our  th'oats  let  out  de  music, 

Sweet  an'  solemn,  loud  an'  free, 
Till  de  rafters  o'  my  cabin 

Echo  wid  de  melody. 

Oh,  de  music  o'  de  banjo, 

Quick  an'  deb'lish,  solemn,  slow, 
Is  de  greates'  joy  an'  solace 

Dat  a  weary  slave  kin  know! 
So  jes'  let  me  hyeah  it  ringin', 

Do'  de  chune  be  po'  an'  rough, 
It's  a  pleasure;  an'  de  pleasures 

O'  dis  life  is  few  enough. 

Now,  de  blessed  little  angels 

Up  in  heaben,  we  are  told, 
Don't  do  nothin'  all  dere  lifetime 

'Ceptin'  play  on  ha'ps  o'  gold. 
Now  I  think  heaben'd  be  mo'  homelike 

Ef  we'd  hyeah  some  music  fall 
F'um  a  real  ol'-fashioned  banjo, 

Like  dat  one  upon  de  wall. 


22  OAK  AND  IVY. 

®tje  ©r  tones* 

You  kin  talk  about  yer  anthems 

An'  yer  arias  an'  sich, 
An'  yer  modern  choir  singin' 

That  you  think  so  awful  rich ; 
But  you  orter  heerd  us  youngsters 

In  the  times  now  far  away, 
A  singin'  o'  the  ol'  tunes 

In  the  ol'-fashioned  way. 

There  was  some  o'  us  sung  treble, 

An'  a  few  o'  us  growled  bass, 
An'  the  tide  o'  song  flowed  smoothly 

With  its  complement  o'  grace; 
There  was  spirit  in  that  music, 

An'  a  kind  o'  solemn  sway, 
A  singin'  o'  the  old  tunes 

In  the  ol'-fashioned  way. 

I  remember  oft  o'  standin' 

In  my  homespun  pantaloons, — 
On  my  face  the  bronze  an'  freckles 

O'  the  guns  o'  youthful  Junes, — 
Thinkin'  that  no  mortal  minstrel 

Ever  chanted  sich  a  lay 
As  the  ol'  tunes  we  was  singin' 

In  the  ol'-fashioned  way. 

The  boys  'ud  always  lead  us, 

An'  the  girls  'ud  all  chime  in, 
Till  the  sweetness  o'  the  singin' 

Robbed  the  list'nin'  soul  o'  sin; 
An'  I  ust  to  tell  the  parson 

'Twas  as  good  to  sing  as  pray, 
When  the  people  sung  the  ol'  tunes 

In  the  ol'-fashioned  way. 


OAK  AND  JF1.  23 

How  I  long  agin  to  hear  it, 

Pourin'  forth  from  soul  to  soul, 
With  the  treble  high  an'  meller, 

An'  the  bass's  mighty  roll ; 
But  the  times  is  very  diff' rent, 

An'  the  music  heerd  to-day 
Ain't  the  singin'  o'  the  ol'  tunes 

In  the  ol'-fashioned  way. 

Little  screechin'  by  a  wToman, 

Little  squawkin'  by  a  man, 
Then  the  organ's  twiddle-twaddle, 

Jest  the  empty  space  to  span, — 
An'  ef  you  should  even  think  it, 

'Tisn't  proper  fur  to  say 
That  you  want  to  hear  the  ol'  tunes 

In  the  ol'-fashioned  way. 

But  I  think  that  some  bright  mornin', 

When  the  toils  of  life  is  o'er, 
An'  the  sun  o'  heaven  arisin' 

Glads  with  light  the  happy  shore, 
I  shall  hear  the  angel  chorus, 

In  the  realms  o'  endless  day, 
A  singin'  o'  the  ol'  tunes 

In  the  ol'-fashioned  way. 


Cnllabrj. 

Sing  me,  sweet,  a  soothing  psalm, 
Holy,  tender,  low,  and  calm, 
Full  of  drowsy  words  and  dreamy, 
Sleep  half  seen  where  the  sides  are  seamy; 
Lay  my  head  upon  your  breast; 
Sing  me  to  rest. 


24  OAK  AND  IVY. 

QtaroL 


Ring  out,  ye  bells! 

All  Nature  swells 
With  gladness  at  the  wondrous  story,  — 

The  world  was  lorn, 

But  Christ  is  born 
To  change  one  sadness  into  glory. 

Sing,  earthlings,  sing! 

To-night  a  King 
Hath  come  from  heaven's  high  throne  to  bless  us, 

The  outstretched  hand 

O'er  all  the  land 
Is  raised  in  pity  to  caress  us. 

Come  at  his  call; 

Be  joyful  all; 
Away  with  mourning  and  with  sadness! 

The  heavenly  choir 

With  holy  fire 
Their  voices  raise  in  songs  of  gladness. 

The  darkness  breaks, 

And  Dawn  awakes, 
Her  cheeks  suffused  with  youthful  blushes. 

The  rocks  and  stones 

In  holy  tones 
Are  singing  sweeter  than  the  thrushes. 

Then  why  should  we 

In  silence  be, 
When  Nature  lends  her  voice  to  praises; 

When  heaven  and  earth 

Proclaim  the  truth 
Of  Him  for  whom  that  lone  star  blazes? 


OAK  AND  IVY.  25 


No,  be  not  still, 

But  with  a  will 
Strike  all  your  harps  and  set  them  ringing; 

On  hill  and  heath 

Let  every  breath 
Throw  all  its  power  into  singing! 


Welcome 


TO   THE   WESTERN   ASSOCIATION   OF   WRITERS. 


" Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way,"- 
So  Berkeley  "said,  and  so  to-day 
The  men  who  know  the  world  still  say. 
The  glowing  West,  with  bounteous  hand, 
Bestows  her  gifts  throughout  the  land, 
And  smiles  to  see  at  her  command 
Art,  science,  and  the  industries, — 
New  fruits  of  new  Hesperides. 
So,  proud  are  you  who  claim  the  West 
As  home  land;    doubly  are  you  blest 
To  live  where  liberty  and  health 
Go  hand  in  hand  with  brains  and  wealth. 
So  here's  a  welcome  to  you  all, 
Whate'er  the  work  your  hands  let  fall, — 
To  you  who  trace  on  history's  page 
The  footprints  of  each  passing  age; 
To  you  who  tune  the  laureled  lyre 
To  songs  of  love  or  deeds  of  fire; 
To  you  before  whose  well-wrought  tale 
The  cheek  doth  flush  or  brow  grow  pale; 
To  you  who  bow  the  ready  knee 
And  worship  cold  philosophy, — 
A  welcome  warm  as  Western  wine, 
And  free  as  Western  hearts,  be  thine. 
Do  what  the  greatest  joy  insures, — 
The  city  has  no  will  but  yours! 
JUNE  27,  1892. 


26  OAK  AND  IVY. 

®tje  ODlb  Apple  ffiree. 

There's  a  memory  keeps  a  runnin' 

Through  my  weary  head  to-night, 
An'  I  see  a  picture  dancin' 

In  the  fire  flames'  ruddy  light; 
'Tis  the  picture  of  an  orchard 

Wrapped  in  autumn's  purple  haze, 
With  the  tender  light  about  it 

That  I  loved  in  other  days. 
An'  a  standin'  in  a  corner 

Once  again  I  seem  to  see 
The  verdant  leaves  an'  branches 

Of  an  old  apple  tree. 

You  perhaps  would  call  it  ugly, 

An'  I  don't  know  but  it's  so, 
When  you  look  the  tree  all  over 

Unadorned  by  memory's  glow; 
For  its  boughs  are  gnarled  an'  crooked, 

An'  its  leaves  are  gettin'  thin, 
An'  the  apples  of  its  bearin' 

Wouldn't  fill  so  large  a  bin 
As  they  ust  to.     But  I  tell  you, 

When  it  comes  to  pleasin'  me, 
It's  the  dearest  in  the  orchard, — 

Is  that  old  apple  tree. 

I  would  hide  within  its  shelter, 

Settlin'  in  some  cozy  nook, 
Where  no  calls  nor  threats  could  stir  me 

From  the  pages  o'  my  book. 
Oh,  that  quiet,  sweet  seclusion 

In  its  fullness  passeth  words! 
It  was  deeper  than  the  deepest 

That  my  sanctum  now  affords. 
Why,  the  jaybirds  an'  the  robins, 

They  was  hand  in  glove  with  me, 
As  they  winked  at  me  an'  warbled 

In  that  old  apple  tree. 


OAK  AND  IVY.  27 


It  was  on  its  sturdy  branches 

That  in  summers  long  ago 
I  would  tie  my  swing,  an'  dangle 

In  contentment  to  an'  fro, 
Idly  dreamin'  childish  fancies, 

Buildin'  castles  in  the  air, 
Makin'  o'  myself  a  hero 

Of  romances  rich  an'  rare. 
I  kin  shet  my  eyes  an'  see  it 

Jest  as  plain  as  plain  kin  be, 
That  same  old  swing  a  danglin' 

To  the  old  apple  tree. 


There's  a  rustic  seat  beneath  it 

That  I  never  kin  forget. 
It's  the  place  where  me  an'  Hallie — 

Little  sweetheart — ust  to  set, 
When  we'd  wander  to  the  orchard 

So's  no  listenin'  ones  could  hear 
As  I  wrhispered  sugared  nonsense 

Into  her  little  willin'  ear. 
Now  my  gray  old  wife  is  Hallie, 

An'  I'm  grayer  still  than  she, 
But  I'll  not  forget  our  courtin' 

'Neath  the  old  apple  tree. 


Life  for  us  ain't  all  been  summer, 

But  I  guess  we've  had  our  share 
Of  its  flittin'  joys  an'  pleasures, 

An'  a  spriuklin'  of  its  care. 
Oft  the  skies  have  smiled  upon  us; 

Then  again  we've  seen  'em  frown, 
Though  our  load  was  ne'er  so  heavy 

That  we  longed  to  lay  it  down. 
But  when  death  does  come  a  callin', 

This  my  last  request  shall  be, — 
That  they'll  bury  me  an'  Hallie 

'Neath  the  old  apple  tree. 


28  OAK  AND  IVY. 

Sames  Mtyttcomb  Kiletj. 

FROM  A  WESTERNER'S  POINT  OF  VIEW 


No  matter  what  you  call  it, 

Whether  genius,  gift,  or  art, 
He  sings  the  simple  songs  that  come 

The  closest  to  your  heart. 
Fur  trim  an'  skillful  phrases, 

I  do  not  keer  a  jot; 
'Tain't  the  words  alone,  but  feelin's, 

That  tech  the  tender  spot. 
An'  that's  jest  why  I  love  him, — 

Why,  he's  got  sech  human  feelin', 
An'  in  ev'ry  song  he  gives  us, 

You  kin  see  it  creepin',  stealin'. 
Through  the  core  the  tears  go  tricklin', 

But  the  edge  is  bright  an'  smiley; 
I  never  saw  a  poet 

Like  that  poet  Whitcomb  Riley. 

His  heart  keeps  beatin'  time  with  our'n 

In  measures  fast  or  slow; 
He  tells  us  jest  the  same  ol'  things 

Our  souls  have  learned  to  know. 
He  paints  our  joys  an'  sorrers 

In  a  way  so  stric'ly  true, 
That  a  body  can't  help  knowin' 

That  he  has  felt  them  too. 
If  there's  a  lesson  to  be  taught, 

He  never  fears  to  teach  it, 
An'  he  puts  the  food  so  good  an'  low 

That  the  humblest  one  kin  reach  it. 
Now  in  our  time,  when  poets  rhyme 

For  money,  fun,  or  fashion, 
'Tis  good  to  hear  one  voice  so  clear 

That  thrills  with  honest  passion. 
So  let  the  others  build  their  songs, 

An'  strive  to  polish  highly, — 
There's  none  of  them  kin  tech  the  heart 

Like  our  own  Whitcomb  Riley. 


OAK  AND  IVY.  29 


The  sun  hath  shed  its  kindly  light, 

Our  harvesting  is  gladly  o'er, 
Our  fields  have  felt  no  killing  blight, 

Our  bins  are  filled  with  goodly  store. 

From  pestilence,  fire,  flood,  and  sword 
We  have  been  spared  by  thy  decree, 

And  now  with  humble  hearts,  O  Lord, 
We  come  to  pay  our  thanks  to  thee. 

We  feel  that  had  our  merits  been 

The  measure  of  thy  gifts  to  us, 
We  erring  children,  born  of  sin, 

Might  not  now  be  rejoicing  thus. 

No  deed  of  ours  hath  brought  us  grace; 

When  thou  wert  nigh  our  sight  was  dull, 
We  hid  in  trembling  from  thy  face, 

But  thou,  O  God,  wert  merciful. 

Thy  mighty  hand  o'er  all  the  land 
Hath  still  been  open  to  bestow 

Those  blessings  which  our  wants  demand 
From  heaven,  whence  all  blessings  flow. 

Thou  hast,  with  ever  watchful  eye, 
Looked  down  on  us  with  holy  care, 

And  from  thy  storehouse  in  the  sky 
Hast  scattered  plenty  everywhere. 

Then  lift  we  up  our  songs  of  praise 
To  thee,  0  Father,  good  and  kind; 

To  thee  we  consecrate  our  days  ; 
Be  thine  the  temple  of  each  mind. 

With  incense  sweet  our  thanks  ascend; 

Before  thy  works  our  powers  pall  ; 
Though  we  should  strive  years  without  end, 

We  could  not  thank  thee  for  them  all. 


30  OAK  AND  IVY. 

ffio  jEtss  jMartj  iBrtttcm. 

When  the  legislature  of  Kentucky  was  discussing  the  passage  of  a  separate- 
coach  bill,  Miss  Mary  Britton,  a  teacher  in  the  schools  of  Lexington,  Kentucky, 
went  before  them,  and  in  a  ringing  speech  protested  against  the  passage  of  the 
bill.  Her  action  was  heroic,  though  it  proved  to  be  without  avail. 

God  of  the  right,  arise 

And  let  thy  pow'r  prevail; 
Too  long  thy  children  mourn 

In  labor  and  travail. 
Oh,  speed  the  happy  day 

When  waiting  ones  may  see 
The  glory -bringing  birth 

Of  our  real  liberty! 

Grant  thou,  0  gracious  God, 

That  not  in  word  alone 
Shall  freedom's  boon  be  ours, 

While  bondage-galled  we  moan! 
But  condescend  to  us 

In  our  o'erwhelming  need; 
Break  down  the  hind'ring  bars, 

And  make  us  free  indeed. 

Give  us  to  lead  our  cause 

More  noble  souls  like  hers, 
The  memory  of  whose  deed 

Each  feeling  bosom  stirs; 
Whose  fearless  voice  and  strong 

Rose  to  defend  her  race, 
Roused  Justice  from  her  sleep, 

Drove  Prejudice  from  place. 

Let  not  the  mellow  light 

Of  Learning's  brilliant  ray 
Be  quenched,  to  turn  to  night 

Our  newly  dawning  day. 


OAK  AND  IVY.  31 

To  that  bright,  shining  star 

Which  thou  didst  set  in  place, 
With  universal  voice 

Thus  speaks  a  grateful  race: 

"Not  empty  words  shall  be 

Our  offering  to  your  fame; 
The  race  you  strove  to  serve 

Shall  consecrate  your  name. 
Speak  on  as  fearless  still; 

Work  on  as  tireless  ever;       ) 
And  your  reward  shall  be 

Due  meed  for  your  endeavor." 


Wtyittter. 

Not  o'er  thy  dust  let  there  be  spent 
The  gush  of  maudlin  sentiment; 
Such  drift  as  that  is  not  for  thee, 
Whose  life  and  deeds  and  songs  agree, 
Sublime  in  their  simplicity. 

Nor  shall  the  sorrowing  tear  be  shed; 
O  singer  sweet,  thou  art  not  dead! 
In  spite  of  time's  malignant  chill, 
With  living  fire  thy  songs  shall  thrill, 
And  men  shall  say,  "He  liveth  still!" 

Great  poets  never  die,  for  Earth 
Doth  count  their  lives  of  too  great  worth 
To  lose  them  from  her  treasured  store; 
So  shalt  thou  live  for  evermore — 
Though  far  thy  form  from  mortal  ken- 
Deep  in  the  hearts  and  minds  of  men. 


OAK  AND  IVY. 

Wutthtg  Song. 

The  November  sun  invites  me, 

And  although  the  chill  wind  smites  me,. 

I  will  wander  to  the  woodland 

Where  the  laden  trees  await; 
And  with  loud  and  joyful  singing 
I  will  set  the  forest  ringing, 
As  if  I  were  king  of  Autumn, 

And  Dame  Nature  were  my  mate, — 

While  the  squirrel  in  his  gambols 
Fearless  round  about  me  ambles, 
As  if  he  were  bent  on  showing 

In  my  kingdom  he'd  a  share; 
While  my  warm  blood  leaps  and  dashes,. 
And  my  eye  with  freedom  flashes, 
As  my  soul  drinks  deep  and  deeper 

Of  the  magic  in  the  air. 

There's  a  pleasure  found  in  nutting, 
All  life's  cares  and  griefs  outshutting, 
That  is  fuller  far  and  better 

Than  what  prouder  sports  impart. 
Who  could  help  a  carol  trilling 
As  he  sees  the  baskets  filling? 
Why,  the  flow  of  song  keeps  running 

O'er  the  high  walls  of  the  heart. 

So  when  I  am  home  returning, 
When  the  sun  is  lowly  burning, 
I  will  once  more  wake  the  echoes 

With  a  happy  song  of  praise, — 
For  the  golden  sunlight  blessing, 
And  the  breezes'  soft  caressing, 
And  the  precious  boon  of  living 

In  the  sweet  November  davs. 


OAK  AND  IVY.  33 

After 


A    POEM   OF   FAITH. 


I  think  that  though  the  clouds  be  dark, 
That  though  the  waves  dash  o'er  the  bark, 
Yet  after  while  the  light  will  come, 
And  in  calm  waters  safe  at  home 

The  bark  will  anchor. 
Weep  not,  my  sad-eyed,  gray-robed  maid, 
Because  your  fairest  blossoms  fade, 
That  sorrow  still  o'erruns  your  cup, 
And  even  though  you  root  them  up, 

The  weeds  grow  ranker. 

For  after  while  your  tears  shall  cease, 
And  sorrow  shall  give  way  to  peace; 
The  flow'rs  shall  bloom,  the  weeds  shall  die, 
And  in  that  faith  seen,  by  and  by 

Thy  woes  shall  perish. 
Smile  at  old  Fortune's  adverse  tide, 
Smile  when  the  scoffers  sneer  and  chide. 
Oh,  not  for  you  the  gems  that  pale, 
And  not  for  you  the  flow'rs  that  fail; 

Let  this  thought  cherish: 

That  after  while  the  clouds  will  part, 
And  then  with  joy  the  waiting  heart 
Shall  feel  the  light  come  stealing  in, 
That  drives  away  the  cloud  of  sin 

And  breaks  its  power. 
And  you  shall  burst  your  chrysalis, 
And  wing  away  to  realms  of  bliss, 
Untrammeled,  pure,  divinely  free, 
Above  all  earth's  anxiety 

From  that  same  hour. 

3 


34  OAK  AND  IVY. 

®o  tlje  jltami 

Kiss  me,  Miami,  thou  most  constant  one! 

I  love  thee  more  for  that  thou  changest  not. 
When  Winter  comes  with  frigid  blast, 
Or  when  the  blithesome  Spring  is  past 

And  Summer's  here  with  sunshine  hot, 
Or  in  sere  Autumn,  thou  hast  still  the  pow'r 
To  charm  alike,  whate'er  the  hour. 

Kiss  me,  Miami,  with  thy  dewy  lips; 

Throbs  fast  my  heart  e'en  as  thine  own  breast  beats. 
My  soul  doth  rise  as  rise  thy  waves, 
As  each  on  each  the  dark  shore  laves 

And  breaks  in  ripples  and  retreats. 
There  is  a  poem  in  thine  every  phase; 
Thou  still  has  sung  through  all  thy  days. 

Tell  me,  Miami,  how  it  was  with  thee 
When  years  ago  Tecumseh  in  his  prime 

His  birch  boat  o'er  thy  waters  sent, 

And  pitched  upon  thy  banks  his  tent. 
In  that  long-gone,  poetic  time, 

Did  some  bronze  bard  thy  flowing  stream  sit  by 

And  sing  thy  praises,  e'en  as  I? 

Did  some  bronze  lover  'neath  this  dark  old  tree 
Whisper  of  love  unto  his  Indian  maid? 

And  didst  thou  list  his  murmurs  deep, 

And  in  thy  bosom  safely  keep 
The  many  raging  vows  they  said? 

Or  didst  thou  tell  to  fish  and  frog  and  bird 

The  raptured  scenes  that  there  occurred? 

But,  O  dear  stream,  what  volumes  thou  couldst  tell 
To  all  who  know  thy  language  as  I  do, 

Of  life  and  love  and  jealous  hate ! 

But  now  to  tattle  were  too  late, — 
Thou  who  hast  ever  been  so  true. 

Tell  not  to  every  passing  idler  here 

All  those  sweet  tales  that  reached  thine  ear. 


OAK  AND  IVY.  35 

But,  silent  stream,  speak  out  and  tell  me  this: 
I  say  that  men  and  things  are  still  the  same  ; 

Were  men  as  bold  to  do  and  dare? 

Were  women  then  as  true  and  fair? 
Did  poets  seek  celestial  flame, 

The  hero  die  to  gain  a  laureled  brow, 

And  women  suffer,  then  as  now? 


Like  the  blush  upon  the  rose 

When  the  wooing  south  wind  speaks, 
Kissing  soft  its  petals, 

Are  thy  cheeks. 

Tender,  soft,  beseeching,  true, 
Like  the  stars  that  deck  the  skies 

Through  the  ether  sparkling, 
Are  thine  eyes. 

Like  the  song  of  happy  birds, 
When  the  woods  with  spring  rejoice, 

In  their  blithe  awak'ning, 
Is  thy  voice. 

Like  soft  threads  of  clustered  silk 
O'er  thy  face  so  pure  and  fair, 

Sweet  in  its  profusion, 
Is  thy  hair. 

Like  a  fair  but  fragile  vase, 
Triumph  of  the  carver's  art, 

Graceful  formed  and  slender,— 
Thus  thou  art. 

Ah,  thy  cheek,  thine  eyes,  thy  voice, 
And  thy  hair's  delightful  wave 

Make  me,  I'll  confess  it, 
Thy  poor  slave! 


36  OAK  AND  IVY. 

(Wje  "Ctjrottic  Sicker." 

It  was  at  the  town  convention 

Fur  to  nominate  a  mayor, 
An'  things  had  been  progressin' 

In  a  way  both  cool  an'  fair; 
An'  we  thought  that  we  had  finished 

In  a  manner  mighty  slick, 
When  up  rose  the  chronic  kicker 

Fur  to  kick,  kick,  kick. 

Then  we  felt  our  feathers  fallin', 

Nor  we  didn't  laugh  no  more, 
While  some  quite  impatient  fellers 

Made  a  bee  line  fur  the  door; 
An'  we  listened,  an'  we  listened, 

While  the  clock  the  hours  ticked, 
To  that  derned  old  chronic  kicker 

As  he  kicked,  kicked,  kicked. 

Next  we  held  a  conf'rence  meetin' 

In  our  little  mission  church, — 
Fur  a  cheap  an'  worthy  pastor 

We  were  in  an  earnest  search ; 
We  had  jest  made  our  agreement 

(An'  'twas  come  to  very  quick), 
When  up  rose  the  chronic  kicker 

Fur  to  kick,  kick,  kick. 

An'  we  heard  the  birds  a  whistlin' 

In  the  air  so  sweet  an'  cool, 
While  we  all  sat  there  a  list'nin' 

To  that  flambergasted  fool; 
But  I'm  sure  the  Lord  was  min'ful, 

Fur  no  thorn  our  conscience  pricked, 
When  we  nodded  while  that  kicker 

Stood  an'  kicked,  kicked,  kicked. 


OAK  AND  IVY.  37 

Next  'twas  in  a  baseball  battle, 

Overlooked  by  boys  in  trees, 
Where  no  act  of  bat  or  baseman 

Could  this  chronic  kicker  please, 
Until  weary  with  his  yellin', 

Some  one  hit  him  with  a  brick, 
An'  he  lay  down  in  the  diamond 

Fur  to  kick,  kick,  kick. 

But  Death,  that  great  policeman, 

By  no  frowns  or  kicks  defied, 
At  last  came  up  an'  seized  him, 

An'  so,  with  a  kick,  he  died; 
But  he,  jest  before  the  fun'ral, 

Made  the  undertaker  sick, 
As  the  coffin  couldn't  hold  him 

For  that  everlastin'  kick. 


I  love  the  dear  old  ballads  best, 

That  tell  of  love  and  death, 
Whose  every  line  sings  love's  unrest 

Or  mourns  the  parting  breath. 
I  love  those  songs  the  heart  can  feel, 

That  make  our  pulses  throb; 
When  lovers  plead  or  contrites  kneel 

With  choking  sigh  and  sob. 

God  sings  through  songs  that  touch  the  heart, 

And  none  are  prized  save  these. 
Though  men  may  ply  their  gilded  art 

For  fortune,  fame,  or  fees, 
The  muse  that  sets  the  songster's  soul 

Ablaze  with  lyric  fire, 
Holds  nature  up,  an  open  scroll, 

And  builds  art's  funeral  pyre. 


38  OAK  AND  IVY. 

Sort  r>'  jBlcm. 


I  don't  believe  in  'ristercrats 

An'  never  did,  you  see; 
The  plain  ol'  homelike  sorter  folks 

Is  good  enough  fur  me. 
0'  course,  I  don't  desire  a  man 

To  be  too  tarnal  rough, 
But  then  I  think  all  folks  should  know 

When  they  air  nice  enough. 

Now,  there  is  folks  in  this  here  world, 

From  peasant  up  to  king, 
Who  want  to  be  so  awful  nice 

They  overdo  the  thing. 
That's  jest  the  thing  that  makes  me  sick, 

An'  quicker  than  a  wink 
I  set  it  down  that  them  same  folks 

Ain't  half  so  good's  you  think. 

I  like  to  see  a  man  dress  nice, 

In  clothes  becomin',  too; 
I  like  to  see  a  woman  fix 

As  women  orter  do  ; 
An'  boys  an'  gals  I  like  to  see 

Look  fresh  an'  young  an'  spry,  — 
We  all  must  have  our  vanity 

An7  pride  before  we  die. 

But  I  jedge  no  man  by  his  clothes,  — 

Nor  gentleman  nor  tramp; 
The  man  that  wears  the  finest  suit 

May  be  the  biggest  scamp, 
An'  he  whose  limbs  are  clad  in  rags 

That  make  a  mournful  sight, 
In  life's  great  battle  may  have  proved 

A  hero  in  the  fight. 


OAK  AND  IVY.  39 

I  don't  believe  in  'ristercrats; 

I  like  the  honest  tan 
That  lies  upon  the  healthful  cheek 

An'  speaks  the  honest  man; 
I  like  to  grasp  the  brawny  hand 

That  labor's  lips  have  kissed, 
For  he  who  has  not  labored  here 

Life's  greatest  pride  has  missed, — 

The  pride  to  feel  that  yo'r  own  strength 

Has  cleaved  fur  you  the  way 
To  heights  to  which  you  were  not  born, 

But  struggled  day  by  day. 
What  though  the  thousands  sneer  an'  scoff, 

An'  scorn  yo'r  humble  birth? 
Kings  are  but  subjects;  you  are  king 

By  right  o'  royal  worth. 

The  man  who  simply  sits  an'  waits 

Fur  good  to  come  along,  v^ 

Ain't  worth  the  breath  that  one  would  take 

To  tell  him  he  is  wrong. 
Fur  good  ain't  flowin'  round  this  world 

Fur  ev'ry  fool  to  sup; 
You've  got  to  put  yo'r  see-ers  on, 

An'  go  an'  hunt  it  up. 

Good  goes  with  honesty,  I  say, 

To  honor  an'  to  bless; 
To  rich  an'  poor  alike  it  brings 

A  wealth  o'  happiness. 
The  'ristercrats  ain't  got  it  all, 

Fur  much  to  their  su' prise, 
That's  one  of  earth's  most  blessed  things 

They  can't  monopolize. 


40  OAK  AND  IVY. 


'Tis  an  old  deserted  homestead 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
Where  the  roof  is  all  moss-covered, 

And  the  walls  are  tumbling  down; 
But  around  that  little  cottage 

Do  my  brightest  mem'ries  cling, 
For  'twas  there  I  spent  the  moments 

Of  my  youth,  —  life's  happy  spring. 

I  remember  how  I  used  to 

Swing  upon  the  old  front  gate, 
While  the  robin  in  the  tree  tops 

Sung  a  night  song  to  his  mate; 
And  how  later  in  the  evening, 

As  the  beaux  were  wont  to  do, 
Mr.  Perkins,  in  the  parlor, 

Sat  and  sparked  my  sister  Sue. 

There  my  mother  —  heaven  bless  her!  — 

Kissed  or  spanked  as  was  our  need, 
And  by  smile  or  stroke  implanted 

In  our  hearts  fair  virtue's  seed; 
While  my  father,  man  of  wisdom, 

Lawyer  keen,  and  farmer  stout, 
Argued  long  with  neighbor  Dobbins 

How  the  corn  crops  would  turn  out. 

Then  the  quiltings  and  the  dances  — 

How  my  feet  were  wont  to  fly, 
While  the  moon  peeped  through  the  barn  chinks 

From  her  stately  place  on  high. 
Oh,  those  days,  so  sweet,  so  happy, 

Ever  backward  o'er  me  roll; 
Still  the  music  of  that  farm  life 

Rings  an  echo  in  my  soul. 


OAK  AND  IVY.  41 


Now  the  old  place  is  deserted, 

And  the  walls  are  falling  down; 
All  who  made  the  home  life  cheerful, 

Now  have  died  or  moved  to  town. 
But  about  that  dear  old  cottage 

Shall  my  mem'ries  ever  cling, 
For  'twas  there  I  spent  the  moments 

Of  my  youth,  —  life's  happy  spring. 


of  w.  c 


Thou  arrant  robber,  Death! 
Couldst  thou  not  find 
Some  lesser  one  than  he 
To  rob  of  breath,  — 
Some  poorer  mind 
Thy  prey  to  be? 

His  mind  wras  like  the  sky,  — 

As  pure  and  free; 
His  heart  was  broad  and  open 

As  the  sea. 

His  soul  shone  purely  through  his  face, 
And  Love  made  him  her  dwelling  place. 

Not  less  the  scholar  than  the  friend, 

Not  less  a  friend  than  man  ; 
The  manly  life  did  shorter  end 

Because  so  broad  it  ran. 

Weep  not  for  him,  unhappy  Muse! 

His  merits  found  a  grander  use 

Some  other-where.    God  wisely  sees 

The  place  that  needs  his  qualities. 

Weep  not  for  him,  for  when  Death  lowers 

O'er  youth's  ambrosia-scented  bowers 

He  only  plucks  the  choicest  flowers. 


42  OAK  AND  IVY. 

An  ®tt) 


How  sweet  the  music  sounded 

That  summer  long  ago, 
When  you  were  by  my  side,  love, 

To  list  its  gentle  flow. 

I  saw  your  eyes  ashining, 

I  felt  your  rippling  hair, 
I  kissed  your  pearly  cheek,  love, 

And  had  no  thought  of  care. 

And  gay  or  sad  the  music, 
With  subtle  charm  replete  ; 

I  found  in  after  years,  love, 
'Twas  you  that  made  it  sweet. 

For  standing  where  we  heard  it, 

I  hear  again  the  strain  ; 
It  wakes  my  heart,  but  thrills  it 

With  sad,  mysterious  pain. 

It  pulses  not  so  joyous 
As  when  you  stood  with  me, 

And  hand  in  hand  we  listened 
To  that  low  melody. 

Oh,  could  the  years  turn  back,  love! 

Oh,  could  events  be  changed 
To  what  they  were  that  time,  love, 

Before  we  were  estranged; 

Wert  thou  once  more  a  maiden 
Whose  smile  was  gold  to  me; 

Were  I  once  more  the  lover 
Whose  word  was  life  to  thee,  — 


OAK  AND  IVY.  43 

0  God!  could  all  be  altered, 
The  pain,  the  grief,  the  strife, 

And  wert  thou — as  thou  shouldst  be — 
My  true  and  loyal  wife! 

But  all  my  tears  are  idle, 

And  all  my  wishes  vain. 
AVhat  once  you  were  to  me,  love, 

You  may  not  be  again. 

For  I,  alas!  like  others, 

Have  missed  my  dearest  aim. 

1  asked  for  love.    Oh,  mockery ! 
Fate  comes  to  me  with  fame! 


Dat). 


Why  deck  with  flow'rs  these  humble  mounds? 
Why  gather  round  this  fast  decaying  mold? 
Why  doth  remembrance  keep  her  solemn  rounds 
And  wrap  these  sleepers  in  her  loving  fold? 
Why  kneel,  ye  silent  mourners,  here 
To  drop  the  reverential  tear? 
Flesh  is  but  dust  when  parted  from  the  breath. 

Flesh  is  but  dust,  but  worth  of  soul  is  gold! 
'Tis  not  the  dust  we  honor,  but  the  brave 
And  noble  spirits  that  it  once  did  hold. 
So  kneel  wTe  weeping  at  the  grave, 
As  at  the  door  through  which  have  passed, 
To  enter  into  mansions  vast, 
The  heroes  who  have  gone  to  meet 
A  dearer  destiny  than  dirgeful  death. 


44  OAK  AND  IVY. 

jlelandjolta. 

Silently  without  my  window, 
Tapping  gently  at  the  pane, 
Falls  the  rain. 

Through  the  trees  sighs  the  breeze 
Like  a  soul  in  pain. 

Here  alone  I  sit  and  weep; 

Thought  hath  banished  sleep. 

Wearily  I  sit  and  listen 
To  the  water's  ceaseless  drip. 
To  my  lip 

Fate  turns  up  the  bitter  cup, 
Forcing  me  to  sip ; 

'Tis  a  bitter,  bitter  drink. 

Thus  I  sit  and  think, — 

Thinking  things  unknown  and  awful, 
Thoughts  on  wild,  uncanny  themes, 
Waking  dreams. 

Specters  dark,  corpses  stark, 
Show  the  gaping  seams 

Whence  the  cold  and  cruel  knife 

Stole  away  their  life. 

Bloodshot  eyes  all  strained  and  staring, 
Gazing  ghastly  into  mine; 
Blood  like  wine 

On  the  brow — clotted  now — 
Shows  death's  dreadful  sign. 

Lonely  vigil  still  I  keep; 

Would  that  I  might  sleep! 

Still,  oh,  still,  my  brain  is  whirling! 

Still  runs  on  my  stream  of  thought; 

I  am  caught 
In  the  net  fate  hath  set. 

Mind  and  soul  are  brought 
To  destruction's  very  brink; 
Yet  I  can  but  think! 


OAK  AND  IVY.  45 

Eyes  that  look  into  the  future, — 

Peeping  forth  from  out  my  mind, 

They  will  find 
Some  new  weight,  soon  or  late, 

On  my  soul  to  bind, 
Crushing  all  its  courage  out, — 
Heavier  than  doubt. 

Dawn,  the  Eastern  monarch's  daughter, 

Rising  from  her  dewy  bed, 

Lays  her  head 
'Gainst  the  clouds'  somber  shrouds 

Now  half  fringed  with  red. 
O'er  the  land  she  'gins  to  peep; 
Come,  O  gentle  Sleep! 

Hark!  the  morning  cock  is  crowing; 

Dreams,  like  ghosts,  must  hie  away; 

'Tis  the  day. 
Rosy  morn  now  is  born; 

Dark  thoughts  may  not  stay. 
Day  my  brain  from  foes  will  keep; 
Now,  my  soul,  I  sleep. 


fife: 

A  crust  of  bread  and  a  corner  to  sleep  in, 
A  minute  to  smile  and  an  hour  to  weep  in, 
A  pint  of  joy  to  a  peck  of  trouble, 
And  never  a  laugh  but  the  moans  come  double; 
And  that  is  life! 

A  crust  and  a  corner  that  love  makes  precious, 
With  the  smile  to  warm  and  the  tears  to  refresh  us; 
And  joy  seems  sweeter  when  cares  come  after, 
And  a  moan  is  the  finest  of  foils  for  laughter; 
And  that  is  life! 


46  OAK  AND  IVY. 


I  wist  not  that  I  had  the  pow'r  to  sing, 

But  here  of  late  they  say  my  songs  are  sweet. 
Is  it  because  my  timid  numbers  ring 

With  love's  warm  music  that  doth  ever  beat 
Its  melody  within  my  throbbing  heart? 

If  so,  what  else  can  roguish  Cupid  do? 
I  know  him  master  of  the  archer's  art; 

Is  he  a  trained  musician  too? 

Mflorn  ©nt 

You  bid  me  hold  my  peace 
And  dry  my  fruitless  tears, 

Forgetting  that  I  bear 
A  pain  beyond  my  years. 

You  say  that  I  should  smile 
And  drive  the  gloom  away; 

I  would,  but  sun  and  smiles 
Have  left  my  life's  dark  day. 

All  time  seems  cold  and  void, 
And  naught  but  tears  remain; 

Life's  music  beats  for  me 
A  melancholy  strain. 

I  used  at  first  to  hope, 
But  hope  is  past  and  gone; 

And  now  without  a  ray 
My  cheerless  life  drags  on. 

Like  to  an  ash-stained  hearth 
When  all  its  fires  are  spent; 

Like  to  an  autumn  wood 

By  storm  winds  rudely  shent,  — 


OAK  AND  IVY.  47 

So  sadly  goes  my  heart, 

Unclothed  of  hope  and  peace; 
It  asks  not  joy  again, 

But  only  seeks  release. 


"  Break  me  my  bounds,  and  let  me  fly 

To  regions  vast  of  boundless  sky ; 

Nor  I,  like  piteous  Daphne,  be 

Root-bound.     Ah,  no!     I  would  be  free 

As  yon  same  bird  that  in  its  flight 

Outstrips  the  range  of  mortal  sight; 

Free  as  the  mountain  streams  that  gush 

From  bubbling  springs,  and  downward  rush 

Across  the  serrate  mountain's  side, — 

The  rocks  o'erwhelmed,  their  banks  defied, — 

And  like  the  passions  in  the  soul, 

Swell  into  torrents  as  they  roll. 

Oh,  circumscribe  me  not  by  rules 

That  serve  to  lead  the  minds  of  fools! 

But  give  me  pow'r  to  work  my  will, 

And  at  my  deeds  the  world  shall  thrill. 

My  words  shall  rouse  the  slumb'ring  zest 

That  hardly  stirs  in  manhood's  breast; 

And  as  the  sun  feeds  lesser  lights, 

As  planets  have  their  satellites, 

So  round  about  me  will  I  bind 

The  men  who  prize  a  master  mind ! " 


He  lived  a  silent  life  alone, 
And  laid  him  down  when  it  was  done; 
And  at  his  head  was  placed  a  stone 
On  which  was  carved  a  name  unknown! 


48  OAK  AND  IVY. 

(Dtt  tije  KttJer, 

The  sun  is  low, 

The  waters  flow, 

My  boat  is  dancing  to  and  fro. 

The  eve  is  still, 

Yet  from  the  hill 

The  killdeer  echoes  loud  and  shrill. 

The  paddles  plash, 

The  wavelets  dash, 

We  see  the  summer  lightning  flash; 

While  now  and  then, 

In  marsh  and  fen 

Too  muddy  for  the  feet  of  men, 

Where  neither  bird 

Nor  beast  has  stirred, 

The  spotted  bullfrog's  croak  is  heard. 

The  wind  is  high, 

The  grasses  sigh, 

The  sluggish  stream  goes  sobbing  by. 

And  far  away 

The  dying  day 

Has  cast  its  last  effulgent  ray; 

While  on  the  land 

The  shadows  stand 

Proclaiming  that  the  eve's  at  hand. 


Once  when  my  soul  was  newly  shriven, 
When  perfect  peace  to  me  was  given, 
Pervading  all  in  all  with  currents  bright, 
I  saw  shine  forth  a  mighty  Light; 
And  myriad  lesser  lights  to  this  were  joined, 
Each  light  with  every  other  light  entwined; 


OAK  AND  IVY.  49 

And  as  they  shone  a  sound  assailed  my  ears, 

Alike  the  mighty  music  of  the  spheres. 

The  greater  light  was  Love  and  Peace  and  Law, 

And  it  had  power  toward  it  the  rest  to  draw; 

It  was  the  Soul  of  souls,  the  greatest  One, 

The  Life  of  lives,  of  suns  the  Sun. 

And  floating  through  it  all,  my  soul  could  see 

The  Christ-light,  shining  for  humanity; 

And  silently  I  heard  soft  murmurs  fall, 

"Look  up,  earth  child;  the  light  is  all." 


Sotjtt 


Of  noble  minds  and  noble  hearts 

Old  Ireland  has  goodly  store; 
But  thou  wert  still  the  noblest  son 

That  e'er  the  Isle  of  Erin  bore. 
A  generous  race,  and  strong  to  dare, 

With  hearts  as  true  as  purest  gold, 
With  hands  to  soothe  as  well  as  strike, 

As  generous  as  they  are  bold,  — 
This  is  the  race  thou  lovedst  so  ; 

And  knowing  them,  I  can  but  know 
The  glory  thy  whole  being  felt 

To  think,  to  act,  to  be,  the  Celt! 

Not  Celt  alone,  America 

Her  arms  about  thee  hath  entwined; 
The  noblest  traits  of  each  grand  race 

In  thee  were  happily  combined. 
As  sweet  of  song  as  strong  of  speech, 

Thy  great  heart  beat  in  every  line. 
No  narrow  partisan  wert  thou; 

The  cause  of  all  oppressed  was  thine! 
The  world  is  cruel  still  and  cold, 
But  who  can  doubt  thy  life  has  told? 
Though  wrong  and  sorrow  still  are  rife 
Old  Earth  is  better  for  thy  life! 
4 


50  OAK  AND  IVY. 

Columbian 


Four  hundred  years  ago  a  tangled  waste 

Lay  sleeping  on  the  west  Atlantic  side; 
Their  devious  ways  the  Old  World's  millions  traced 

Content,  and  loved  and  labored,  dared  and  died, 
While  students  still  believed  the  charts  they  conned, 

And  wallowed  in  their  thriftless  ignorance, 
Nor  dreamed  of  other  lands  that  lay  beyond 

Old  Ocean's  dense,  indefinite  expanse. 

II 

But  deep  within  her  heart  old  Nature  knew 

That  she  had  once  arrayed,  at  Earth's  behest, 
Another  offspring,  fine  and  fair  to  view, — 

The  chosen  suckling  of  the  mother's  breast. 
The  child  was  wrapped  in  vestments  soft  and  fine, 

Each  fold  a  work  of  Nature's  matchless  art; 
The  mother  looked  on  it  with  love  divine, 

And  strained  the  loved  one  closely  to  her  heart. 
And  there  it  lay,  and  with  the  warmth  grew  strong 

And  hearty,  by  the  salt  sea  breezes  fanned, 
Till  Time  with  mellowing  touches  passed  along, 

And  changed  the  infant  to  a  mighty  land. 

Ill 

But  men  knew  naught  of  this,  till  there  arose 

That  mighty  mariner,  the  Genoese, 
Who  dared  to  try,  in  spite  of  fears  and  foes, 

The  unknown  fortunes  of  unsounded  seas. 
O  noblest  of  Italia's  sons,  thy  bark 

Went  not  alone  into  that  shrouding  night. 
0  dauntless  darer  of  the  rayless  dark, 

The  world  sailed  with  thee  to  eternal  light. 


OAK  AND  IVY.  51 

The  deer  haunts  that  with  game  were  crowded  then 

To-day  are  tilled  and  cultivated  lands; 
The  schoolhouse  tow'rs  where  bruin  had  his  den, 

And  where  the  wigwam  stood  the  chapel  stands; 
The  place  that  nurtured  men  of  savage  mien 

Now  teems  with  men  of  Nature's  noblest  types; 
Where  moved  the  forest-foliage  banner  green, 

Now  flutters  in  the  breeze  the  stars  and  stripes! 

OCTOBER  21,  1892. 

Cark. 

Though  the  winds  be  dank, 
And  the  sky  be  sober, 

And  the  grieving  day 

In  a  mantle  gray 
Hath  let  her  waiting  maiden  robe  her, — 

All  the  fields  along 

I  can  hear  the  song 
Of  the  meadow  lark, 

As  she  flits  and  flutters, 

And  laughs  at  the  thunder  when  it  mutters. 

0  happy  bird,  of  heart  most  gay 

To  sing  when  skies  are  gray! 

When  the  clouds  are  full, 
And  the  tempest  master 

Lets  the  loud  winds  sweep 

From  his  bosom  deep 
Like  heralds  of  some  dire  disaster, 

Then  the  heart,  alone, 

To  itself  makes  moan; 
And  the  songs  come  slow, 

While  the  tears  fall  fleeter, 

And  silence  than  song  by  far  seems  sweeter. 

Oh,  few  are  they  along  the  way 

Who  sing  when  skies  are  gray! 


52  OAK  AND  IVY. 

Sealing. 


As  a  quiet  little  seedling 
Lay  within  its  darksome  bed, 

To  itself  it  fell  a  talking, 
And  this  is  what  it  said: 

"I  am  not  so  very  robust, 
But  I'll  do  the  best  I  can"; 

And  the  seedling  from  that  moment 
Its  work  of  life  began. 

So  it  pushed  a  little  leaflet 

Up  into  the  light  of  day, 
To  examine  the  surroundings 

And  show  the  rest  the  way. 

The  leaflet  liked  the  prospect, 
So  it  called  its  brother,  Stem; 

Then  two  other  leaflets  heard  it, 
And  quickly  followed  them. 

To  be  sure,  the  haste  and  hurry 
Made  the  seedling  sweat  and  pant; 

But  almost  before  it  knew  it 
It  found  itself  a  plant. 

The  sunshine  poured  upon  it, 
And  the  clouds  they  gave  a  shower; 

And  the  little  plant  kept  growing 
Till  it  found  itself  a  flower. 

Little  folks,  be  like  the  seedling, 
Always  do  the  best  you  can; 

Every  child  must  share  life's  labor 
Just  as  well  as  every  man. 


OAK  AND  IVY.  53 

And  the  sun  and  showers  will  help  you 
Through  the  lonesome,  struggling  hours, 

Till  you  raise  to  light  and  beauty 
Virtue's  fair,  unfading  flowers. 


A   SONG. 

Poor  withered  rose,  she  gave  it  me, 
Half  in  revenge  and  half  in  glee; 
Its  petals  not  so  pink  by  half 
As  are  her  lips  when  curled  to  laugh, 
As  are  her  cheeks  when  dimples  gay 
In  merry  mischief  o'er  them  play. 

CHORUS. 

Forgive,  forgive,  it  seems  unkind 
To  cast  thy  petals  to  the  wind; 
But  it  is  right,  and  lest  I  err 
So  scatter  I  all  thoughts  of  her. 

Poor  withered  rose,  so  like  my  heart, 
That  wilts  at  sorrow's  cruel  dart. 
Who  hath  not  felt  the  winter's  blight 
When  every  hope  seemed  warm  and  bright? 
Who  doth  not  know  love  unreturned, 
E'en  when  the  heart  most  wildly  burned? 

Poor  withered  rose,  thou  liest  dead; 
Too  soon  thy  beauty's  bloom  hath  fled. 
'Tis  not  without  a  tearful  ruth 
I  watch  decay  thy  blushing  youth; 
And  though  thy  life  goes  out  in  dole, 
Thy  perfume  lingers  in  my  soul. 


54  OAK  AND  IVY. 

Confirmation* 

He  was  a  poet  who  wrote  clever  verses, 
And  folks  said  he  had  fine  poetical  taste; 

But  his  father,  a  practical  farmer,  accused  him 
Of  letting  the  strength  of  his  arm  go  to  waste. 

He  called  on  his  sweetheart  each  Saturday  evening, 
As  pretty  a  maiden  as  man  ever  faced, 

And  there  he  confirmed  the  old  man's  accusation 
By  letting  the  strength  of  his  arm  go  to  vjaist. 

Worct:    A  Smnctbe. 

Ah,  Nora,  my  Nora,  the  light  fades  away, 

While  Night  like  a  spirit  steals  up  o'er  the  hills; 
The  thrush  from  his  tree  where  he  chanted  all  day, 

No  longer  his  music  in  ecstasy  trills. 
Then,  Nora,  be  near  me;  thy  presence  doth  cheer  me, 

Thine  eye  hath  a  gleam  that  is  truer  than  gold. 
I  cannot  but  love  thee;  so  do  not  reprove  me, 

If  the  strength  of  my  passion  should  make  me  too  bold. 

CHOEUS. 

Nora,  pride  of  my  heart, — 

Rosy  cheeks,  cherry  lips,  sparkling  with  glee, — 
Wake  from  thy  slumbers,  wherever  thou  art; 

Wake  from  thy  slumbers  to  me. 

Ah,  Nora,  my  Nora,  there's  love  in  the  air, — 

It  stirs  in  the  numbers  that  thrill  in  my  brain; 
Oh,  sweet,  sweet  is  love  with  its  mingling  of  care, 

Though  joy  travels  only  a  step  before  pain. 
Be  roused  from  thy  slumbers  and  list  to  my  numbers; 

My  heart  is  poured  out  in  this  song  unto  thee. 
Oh,  be  thou  not  cruel,  thou  treasure,  thou  jewel; 

Turn  thine  ear  to  my  pleading  and  hearken  to  me. 


OAK  AND  IVY.  55 

ffioemtig* 

The  moon  begins  her  stately  ride 

Across  the  summer  sky; 
The  happy  wavelets  lash  the  shore, — 

The  tide  is  rising  high. 

Beneath  some  friendly  blade  of  grass 

The  lazy  beetle  cowers; 
The  coffers  of  the  air  are  filled 

With  offerings  from  the  flowers. 

And  slowly  buzzing  o'er  my  head 

A  swallow  wings  her  flight; 
I  hear  the  weary  plowman  sing 

As  falls  the  restful  night. 


LINES   ON   READING       DRIFTWOOD.7 


Driftwood  gathered  here  and  there 
Along  the  beach  of  time; 
Now  and  then  a  chip  of  truth 
'Mid  boards  and  boughs  of  rhyme; 
Driftwood  gathered  day  by  day, — 
The  cypress  and  the  oak, — 
Twigs  that  in  some  former  time 
From  sturdy  home  trees  broke. 
Did  this  wood  come  floating  thick 
All  along  down  "  Injin  Oik"? 
Or  did  kind  tides  bring  it  thee 
From  the  past's  receding  sea 
Down  the  stream  of  memory? 


56  OAK  AND  IVY. 


The  tear  another's  tears  bring  forth, 
The  sigh  which  answers  sigh, 

The  pulse  that  beats  at  other's  woes, 
E'en  though  our  own  be  nigh, 

A  balm  to  bathe  the  wounded  heart 
Where  sorrow's  hand  hath  lain, 

The  link  divine  from  soul  to  soul 
That  makes  us  one  in  pain, — 

Sweet  sympathy,  benignant  ray, 
Light  of  the  soul  doth  shine; 

In  it  is  human  nature  giv'n 
A  touch  of  the  divine. 


Farewell,  farewell,  my  love  Irene; 

The  pangs  of  sadness  stir  my  breast; 
Though  many  miles  may  intervene, 

My  soul's  with  thine,  in  East  or  West. 
Go  where  thou  wilt,  to  wealth  or  fame; 
Win  for  thyself  or  praise  or  blame, — 
My  love  shall  ever  be  the  same, 
My  love  Irene. 

Farewell,  farewell,  my  love  Irene; 

Oh,  sad  decree,  that  we  must  part! 
The  wound  is  deep,  the  pain  is  keen 

That  agitates  mine  aching  heart. 
My  feverish  eyes  burn  up  their  tears; 
I  cannot  still  my  doubts  and  fears; 
And  this  one  sigh  the  night  wind  hears, — 
My  love  Irene. 


OAK  AND  IVY.  ,  57 

Farewell,  farewell,  my  love  Irene; 

The  morning's  gray  now  floods  the  sky; 
The  sun  peeps  from  his  misty  screen ; 

Mine  only  love,  good-bye,  good-bye. 
All  love  must  fade,  all  life  must  die, 
The  smile  must  turn  into  the  sigh. 
Alas!  how  hard  to  say  good-bye, 
My  love  Irene. 


Common 


I  like  to  hear  of  wealth  and  gold, 
And  El  Doradoes  in  their  glory  ; 

I  like  for  silks  and  satins  bold 
To  sweep  and  rustle  through  a  story. 

The  nightingale  is  sweet  of  song; 

The  rare  exotic  smells  divinely; 
And  knightly  men  who  stride  along, 

The  role  heroic  carry  finely. 

But  then,  upon  the  other  hand, 
Our  minds  have  got  a  way  of  running 

To  things  that  aren't  quite  so  grand, 
Which,  maybe,  we  were  best  in  shunning. 

For  some  of  us  still  like  to  see 
The  poor  man  in  his  dwelling  narrow, 

The  hollyhock,  the  bumblebee, 
The  meadow  lark,  and  chirping  sparrow. 

We  like  the  man  who  soars  and  sings 
With  high  and  lofty  inspiration; 

But  he  who  sings  of  common  things 
Shall  always  share  our  admiration. 


58  OAK  AND  IVY. 

©mtt'  fiaxk* 

He  stood  beside  the  station  rail, 

A  negro  aged  and  bent  and  frail. 

His  palsied  hands  like  the  aspen  shook, 

And  a  mute  appeal  was  in  his  look; 

His  every  move  was  pained  and  slow, 

And  his  matted  hair  was  white  as  snow. 

He  noted  our  questioning  looks,  and  said, 

With  a  solemn  shake  of  his  hoary  head: 

"  I  reckon  you're  wonderin',  an'  well  you  may, 

Whar  an  oF  man  lak  me's  a  goin'  to-day. 

I've  lived  in  this  town  fur  thirty  years, 

An'  known  alike  my  joys  an'  tears, 

An'  I've  labored  hard  year  out,  year  in; 

But  now  I'm  a  goiii'  back  agin 

To  the  blue  grass  medders  an'  fiel's  o'  co'n 

In  the  dear  ol'  State  whar  I  was  bo'ii. 

It's  the  same  ol'  tale  that  I  have  to  tell, — 

An'  thar's  few  o'  my  race  but  knows  it  well, — 

When  fust  the  proclamation  come 

I  felt  too  free  to  stay  at  home. 

Freedom,  it  seemed,  was  a  gift  divine, 

An'  I  thought  the  whole  wide  world  was  mine. 

Then  I  was  spry,  an'  my  hair  was  black, 

An'  this  troublesome  crook  wasn't  in  my  back; 

My  soul  was  allus  full  o'  song, 

Fur  my  heart  was  light,  an'  my  limbs  was  strong, 

An'  I  wasn't  afeared  to  show  my  face 

To  the  sturdiest  worker  on  the  place. 

Well,  I  caught  the  fever  that  ruled  the  day, 

An',  finally,  northward  made  my  way. 

They  said  that  things  were  better  North, 

An'  a  man  was  held  at  his  honest  worth. 

Well,  it  may  be  so,  but  I  have  some  doubt, 

An'  thirty  years  ain't  wiped  it  out. 


OAK  AND  IVY.  59 

Thar  was  lots  of  things  in  the  North  to  admire, 

Though  they  hadn't  the  warmth  an'  passion  an'  fire 

That  all  my  life  I'd  been  ust  to  seein' 

An'  thought  belonged  to  a  human  bein'. 

An'  a  thing  I  could'nt  help  but  miss 

Was  the  real  oP  Southern  heartiness. 

But  year  after  year  I  worried  along, 

While  deep  in  my  heart  the  yearnin'  strong 

Grew  stronger  an'  fiercer  to  visit  once  more 

The  well  loved  scenes  o'  my  native  shore. 

But  money  was  skeerce,  an'  time  went  on, 

Till  now  full  thirty  years  have  gone 

Ere  I  turn  my  aged  steps  to  roam 

Back  to  my  ol'  Kaintucky  home, 

Back  to  the  ol'  Kaintucky  sights, 

Back  to  the  scene  o'  my  youth's  delights, 

Back  whar  my  heart  was  full  o'  glee, 

Back  whar  I  fust  found  liberty. 

E'en  now  as  I  think  the  ol'  times  o'er, 

An'  o'  the  joy  they  held  in  store,  — 

Yes,  even  now,  on  life's  dark  side, 

My  heart  swells  out  with  honest  pride. 

Oh,  praise  the  Lamb,  that  I  shall  see 

Once  more  the  land  so  dear  to  me. 

Don't  mind  an  ol'  man's  tears,  but  say 

It's  joy,  he's  goin'  back  to-day." 


Enthroned  upon  the  mighty  truth, 
Within  the  confines  of  the  laws, 

True  Justice  seeth  not  the  man, 
But  only  hears  his  cause. 

Unconscious  of  his  creed  or  race, 
She  cannot  see,  but  only  weighs; 
For  Justice  with  unbandaged  eyes 
Would  be  oppression  in  disguise. 


60  OAK  AND  IVY. 


The  moon  has  left  the  sky,  love, 

The  stars  are  hiding  now, 
And  frowning  on  the  world,  love, 

Night  bares  her  sable  brow. 
The  snow  is  on  the  ground,  love, 

And  cold  and  keen  the  air  is. 
I'm  singing  here  to  you,  love; 

You're  dreaming  there  in  Paris. 

But  this  is  Nature's  law,  love, 

Though  just  it  may  not  seem, 
That  men  should  wake  to  sing,  love, 

While  maidens  sleep  and  dream. 
Them  care  may  not  molest,  love, 

Nor  stir  them  from  their  slumbers, 
Though  midnight  find  the  swain,  love, 

Still  halting  o'er  his  numbers. 

I  watch  the  rosy  dawn,  love, 

Come  stealing  up  the  east, 
While  all  things  round  rejoice,  love, 

That  Night  her  reign  has  ceased. 
The  lark  will  soon  be  heard,  love, 

And  on  his  way  be  winging; 
When  Nature's  poets  wake,  love, 

Why  should  a  man  be  singing? 


INDEX. 


A  Banjo  Song 20 

A  Career 47 

A  Drowsy  Day 7 

After  While 33 

An  Easter  Ode.. 10 

An  Old  Memory 42 

A  Question 46 

A  Summer  Pastoral.... 14 

A  Thanksgiving  Poem 29 

Christmas  Carol 24 

Columbian  Ode 50 

Common  Things 57 

Confirmation 54 

Evening 55 

Goin'  Back 58 

Hymn , 19 

In  Summer  Time 18 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 28 

John  Boyle  O'Reilly 49 

Justice 59 

Keep  a  Pluggin'  Away 8 

Life 45 

Love's  Pictures 35 

Lullaby 23 

Melancholia 44 

Memorial  Day..... 43 

Merry  Autumn 12 

My  Love,  Irene 56 

My  Sort  o'  Man 38 

Night  of  Love 60 

Nora:    A  Serenade 54 

Nutting  Song 32 

October 11 

Ode  to  Ethiopia 5 

On  the  Death  of  W.  C 41 

On  the  River 48 

Poor  Withered  Rose 53 

61 


62  INDEX. 

Sonars. 16 

Son-d 37 

Sunset 17 

Sympathy 56 

The  "Chronic  Kicker" 36 

The  Light 48 

The  Meadow  Lark 51 

The  Old  Apple  Tree 26 

The  Old  Homestead 40 

The  Ol'  Tunes 22 

The  Seedling 52 

The  Sparrow 9 

To  Dr.  James  Newton  Matthews,  Mason,  Illinois 13 

To  Miss  Mary  Britton 30 

To  Pfrimmer 55 

To  the  Miami 34 

Welcome  Address 25 

Whittier 31 

Worn  Out..' 46 


02 


